Day Pass
by intothemystic
Summary: A followup of sorts to Awakening...it's just a few days later....and Christie is going to spring Jim from the hospital for a few hours...He's just not sure he's ready.


Disclaimer: BJ does not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended. This is written purely as recreation…

A/N: This is a pseudo follow up to Awakening..just a few days later in the hospital. Won't be long, I don't think—but have more coming…enjoy.

Day Pass

Fifteen days have passed in darkness. Or is it sixteen? Today he is going to leave the hospital for the first time. It's just for a few hours, but he doesn't want to go. He's terrified of going. Much as it is hell lolling about in the hospital, the thought of venturing away with Christie scares the hell out of him. But Christie, and Stephanie, his relentless therapist, have insisted. He has put it off for four days in a row now, but today it is. Christie will be here at eleven.

Mornings have developed an unpleasant rhythm, but a rhythm is better than nothing. Nights are fitful. Nightmares tantalize him with colourful imagery of his life as he knew it. Each night he tosses and turns while his mind's eye recreates the shooting for him. He doesn't even know how many times he's awoken, disoriented, coated in a sheen of sweat, breathing panicked, with a nurse at his side trying to reassure him. He can't help but cry out when he wakes.

The morning ritual begins today, as with every day since leaving the intensive care unit, with the creaking of the tray table beside his bed and a disembodied voice announcing that it's breakfast time. He feels hung-over from his disturbed sleep. It's hard for him to believe that it's morning. The only cue is the arrival of the stale-smelling hospital food and the overly cheerful greeting from his nurse each day.

The pain is manageable now. He groans and rubs at his eyes reflexively.

"What time is it?" It's the same every day. It should be the middle of the night, shouldn't it? But the nurses always come back with the same answer: seven o'clock.

He still won't eat with a nurse in the room. It's an adventure in making a mess, and he can't stand the thought of an audience. Each day, the nurse orients him to what's where, and then slips away to tend to other patients. Finding the food is becoming easier, but he still discovers crumbs on his shirt and sheets on a daily basis, a frustration that he can barely tolerate given his usual attention to his appearance.

Oddly, Christie has been here every day. She comes in the afternoon, clicking heels, expensive perfume, jangling bracelets, and sits on the squeaky chair beside him. She is quieter than he is used to and he finds it discomfiting. The complete absence of any clues to what she is thinking frustrates him, but he doesn't dare ask. He is just glad that she is there at all. They have talked about it—but not much. It's too much like walking the razor's edge, and neither of them can handle a jarring fall at the moment. When the pain subsided some, she asked him about it a little.

Day Four 

"Jim?"

He must have fallen asleep. He didn't hear her come in, and now she is beside him. He can't help but jump at the sudden intrusion.

"I didn't hear you come in."

A hand is suddenly on top of his and it takes a force of will not to flinch again and draw it back. He wonders if he will ever get used to unexpected voices and touches…

"You were sleeping."

"Have you been here long?"

There is a tinkling sound from one of her bracelets as she shifts beside him. He wonders what she is doing. Crossing her legs? Shrugging off her coat? Toying with her hair?

"Twenty minutes. I didn't want to wake you. How are you feeling today?"

He sighs and shrugs. He never knows how to answer these questions.

"I'm sorry, Jimmie…I don't know what's okay to ask…"

He feels his face flush. He wondered when this was coming. He has been awake four days and this is the first time either of them has broached the elephant in the room.

"It's okay, Chris. I—don't know what to tell you either…I mean—I can't see…." His voice trails off and his hand finds its way to his face in a gesture that is becoming familiar to both of them. He scrubs at his eyes fruitlessly. They ache, but the movement does little to relieve the discomfort.

"Anything?" Her voice is so strained and tentative—he wonders whether she is in tears, but doesn't have it in him to reach a hand out and check.

"Yeah. There's nothing."

"Jimmie? Is it dark?" She squeezes his hand. He can feel her palm sweating slightly.

He closes his eyes and rests back on the pillow. It is easier to have this conversation than he thought. Giving voice to what he has experienced this last few days isn't quite as painful as the actual content of the days themselves—he thought it might be.

He ponders her question. Is it dark? He always imagined it would be—there's no other way to conceive of it really, when you can see…but the thing is…

"It's not exactly dark," he says slowly, searching for a way to connect her with this new place he finds himself in, "it's just…nothing. It's like someone turned them off." His hand strays to his eyes again.

She lifts his other hand to her face and nuzzles it gently. She has given him what he needed without his having to ask. He can feel the tears there. The sensation is instantly mirrored in his own eyes. He chokes back a sob, and pulls her closer. He feels her head settle lightly on his chest, and her fingers stroke his arm.

"It's gonna be okay, Jimmie. We can do this."

It takes a moment before her words sink in. _We can do this. We…_

Day 8 

The usual morning ritual, wrestling with rubbery scrambled eggs, is interrupted by a knock on the door. He puts his fork down immediately, running a hand self-consciously over his front in search of errant food.

"Mr. Dunbar?"

He clears his throat nervously.

"The one and only." He feels like his attempt at humor falls flat. He just can't pull it off right now. It's all he can do just to continue to breathe in and out right now. It seems like each inspiration and expiration is accompanied by the same nagging thought: "I can't do this."

He hears a soft chuckle, and someone moves to his side.

"I'm Stephanie, and I'm an occupational therapist. I'm here to help you get back on your feet."

He feels a hand graze his arm in warning, and then she takes his hand in a firm handshake.

"Lesson one for your loved ones: Teach them to touch the back of your hand with whatever they would like to hand you—a cup—a hand for a handshake—then all you have to do is reach out and take it. No having to play hide and seek."

He chuckles nervously. "I'll take that under advisement. Got anything in that bag of tricks that will let me see?"

She only misses a beat before responding.

"I wish I did—but I've got the next best thing."

He tries not to groan. He can't imagine that there is a next best thing to seeing.

He hears her rummaging beside him and then she touches the back of his hand with something cold. He takes it from her, and realizes immediately that she has given him a folded cane. He blanches and drops it onto the bed. He lets his head drop to the pillow and turns his face away from her.

"I'm sorry…I can't do this."

A reassuring hand is on his shoulder at the same time as another hand takes his and wraps it back around the cane again.

"I know," she says, "and that's why I'm here."


End file.
